Florida Snowman

I am not sure it bodes well when you begin a 20 miler with a small ziploc bag containing ibuprofen, toilet paper, and cab fare.

This was my sad state at the start of my long run last Saturday morning. I had just flown in from NY the night before and had a margarita to reclaim my tex-mex heritage and set my nerves to neutral after two concurrent flights in less than 48 hours with enough turbulence to create keg beer quality fizz in my bloodstream.

I woke up with my stomach churning and a bad case of what we affectionately call 'liquibutt' (I never claimed to be pleasant, or mature) from 4:30 am until I grumbled and muttered my way to meet up with my cronies at 6 am. With my ziploc bag.

Between my oddly clenched gait, general fatigue and foul mood at what I felt was a dismal debut on Good Morning America, I was not anywhere near the front of the pack. (Unless people were picking up the pace so they wouldn't run behind me). I say dismal regarding my book-release interview because for as much as I know my life has gone forward in a new and positive direction (thank you God), I end up feeling like the focus is always more about someone I slept with on several occasions in the late '90s. (This is not to say that I am not grateful for that relationship (then or now), or to dilute the fact that I am aware that devotional books do not automatically beget a slot on morning television. I get it.) In any event, a long run is as good a place to have a meltdown as any, which is what I managed to do.

I silently trudged along for most of the miles, trying to hang on to the last shreds of my resolve and the last sighting of the familiar shorts in front of me (Uh, I think they turned right up there...?). Finally, when my last calorie was burned and the last person (think straw/camel) asked me an honest question about how I was doing, I lost it. I don't think I'm a pretty crier. You know how some girls well up with tears in such a way that illuminates the brilliant color of their eyes, but glistens just out of reach of any possibility of coming into contact with mascara? The overall effect is stunning...vulnerable, yet strong enough to hold it together. Add to that a couple delicate, well-timed, feminine sniffles and you are on your zippy way without a speeding ticket, or your unsuspecting significant other is on his way to pick up ice cream, diamonds, or a ticket to Paris. Well, this is not me.

My sobs always catch me by surprise, like grabbing a hot door handle on the back draft of my emotion. I suck air in manic gulps, wheezing in a drowning attempt to stave off panic. This always causes a telltale gap in conversation at which point innocent bystanders politely try not to make eye contact and wait patiently for the remainder of my response, or at least the mandatory exhale. This comes out more like high pitched wail, like something I once heard on the Discovery channel on some program about migrating whales. Then comes the tears and runny nose, mixed with more choppy verbal attempts to explain myself or cover my tracks. Forget the ticket to Paris; I'm lucky to get a Kleenex. Saturday I just used my sleeve. It was a make-do kind of day.

By the grace of God, and Paige and Katie's Navy Seal level of loyalty to a fallen comrade (at least we can bring the body back to her family, SIR!) I made it back to my car. I wanted to kiss the bumper of my dirty Volvo. After guzzling Gatorade and doing the mandatory (albeit insufficient) calf stretchy-stretch, Melissa asked me if I was okay, if there was anything she could do. I smiled and told her she already had by getting me through these long miles. I made it, humor and humility intact.

Paige, Katie, Courtney and I went and stuck our gimpy legs in my freezing, leaf covered swimming pool. It was so cold we screamed upon entry, on step one. After about 5 minutes, unable to feel our lower extremities or stop laughing, we decided that there are times when the only way to get through it is to do it.

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